


objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Body Horror, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Existential Angst, F/M, M/M, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“If you should hear loud screaming from the Dog Park between the hours of 2 am and 8 am on Saturday, do not be alarmed. There is no reason to panic. Screams aren't real. The Dog Park isn't real. 2 am is not real. Whatever you do, do not think about the vastness of space or the infinite darkness of the cosmos.”</i> Team Machine visits Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **Dana** , who was wonderfully supportive when I wrote her to say “I think I am writing a Person of Interest / Welcome to Night Vale crossover,THIS IS HAPPENING, DANA” and who also made me realize that this story needed more tentacles. Thank you, bb <33
> 
> Huge thanks to **Sky** for beta work: she occasionally gets spammed with an outright hilarious amount of my writing after many weeks of radio silence, and still manages to do a lovely beta job  <3 Sky is a gift, okay. A GIFT.

They duck through the spray of bullets and muzzle flashes and make it to the car, Harold clutching the briefcase to his chest like a newborn when he falls into the backseat. John and Root return fire, their mouths identical, grim lines. A window shatters with an explosion of glass shards, and then the engine roars and John high-tails it out of the street, tires squealing, while Root leans out of the broken window to deliver precise shots, bang bang bang.

"Left turn," Harold says, and then "left, again, onto the highway." Root turns in her seat and puts her hand on the briefcase as if she's feeling for a pulse. The little green light blinks in the darkness like an eye. John keeps driving, broken glass glittering on his shoulders like snow.

They stop at a gas station in the desert when the sun comes up pink and lazy, chasing away the desert lights like stray insects.

"Where are we going?" Root asks.

"Where are we going?" John doesn't ask. John never asks about mundane things like direction, or how Harold knows the things that he knows, or what the meaning of the universe is.

"I don't know," Harold says, which is a lie. Then he says: "We should be safe here." This is also a lie.

Back on the road, they pass a sign that says

DON'T GET CLOSE TO THE DESERT LIGHTS  
THEY HAVE DONE NOTHING TO HURT YOU  
THEY ARE MORE AFRAID OF YOU  
THAN YOU ARE  
OF THEM

"Where are we going?" The briefcase with the god inside doesn't ask.

The next sign reads "Welcome To Night Vale".

\--

Harold doesn't know that this is where they are going, and then he does. Then, suddenly, he has always known: the only thing he has ever known for certain is that he would bring them here, in this car with the broken window, on this day.

"We should have taken Bear," John says, when they pass the Dog Park.

"Don't say that," Harold says, anxiously. "And don't look at the Dog Park. Or the Hooded Figures."

"What Hooded Figures?" Root asks. She is tapping a spot on her head right behind her ear with her index finger, like she's sending morse code.

"Exactly," Harold says. Something squirms against his back. Harold sighs.

\--

They stop at a motel. The Vacancy sign is illuminated in yellow neon. In the parking lot, an unmarked van of a vague, yet menacing, government agency is parked. There are two men sitting in the front. One is drinking from a styrofoam cup and solving a crossword puzzle, the other one is pretending to be a cat.

Harold ignores them. Root waves to them. John looks slightly homesick.

At the reception, Harold asks for a room. The manager points to the neon sign outside. It says No Vacancy. All the keys to the rooms are hanging on the little wooden board behind him. Harold notes that the room numbers are all prime numbers. This means something, but he doesn't know what it is.

"We just need a place to stay for tonight," Harold says.

Outside in the van, the agents write this down.

The manager looks at the wooden board. "As you can see, it's busy around here. We're pretty much booked."

"I see," Harold says, even though he doesn't.

The manager looks at them. "I can offer you Number 15, if you want." He produces a small silver key from under his desk.

"That's not a prime number," Root says, frowning.

"Do you want the room or not?" The manager asks.

"We'll take it," Harold says quickly.

In the hallway, they pass a vending machine that spreads sickly, greenish light. The bees inside are buzzing unobtrusively. All the doors to the rooms are open, and nobody is inside.

\--

They get back into the car to find a place to have dinner. Root drives, tapping morse code onto the steering wheel. John turns on the radio. Cecil Palmer's smooth voice wavers from the speakers.

"The City Council would like to inform the citizens of Night Vale that there is no reason to panic. There is no reason to lock your doors and windows, turn off all the lights and roll into a tight ball on the floor, sobbing intermittently. If you should hear loud screaming from the Dog Park between the hours of 2 am and 8 am on Saturday, do not be alarmed. There is no reason to panic. Screams aren't real. The Dog Park isn't real. 2 am is not real. Whatever you do, do not think about the vastness of space or the infinite darkness of the cosmos. This has been a message from City Council."

They stop at a traffic light. The intersection is completely empty, and all the lights are red. John looks out of the broken window. There is a man in a tan jacket carrying a deerskin suitcase. The suitcase makes a low humming sound. Then all the lights change to green and the car moves again, and John can't remember the man's face, or that he saw him, or the humming noise.

"Scientists have discovered that each human being swallows up to three spiders a year in their sleep. This information is incorrect. The spiders are always there. They are, in fact, quite upset by the implication that they live elsewhere and are accidentally ingested during the night. The spiders live in your throat. If you put your ear against someone's throat, sometimes you can hear the spiders moving in it. Do not attempt to remove the spiders. Why would you do that. This is a stupid idea. Do you even know anything about medicine. Please keep your uninformed opinions to yourself. This has been: Children's Fun Fact Science Corner."

"There is a diner on the corner," Harold says.

"How do you know this?" John doesn't ask.

"How do you know this?" Root asks.

"I grew up here," Harold says. He places his hand on the briefcase. The little green light shivers. "Ssh," Harold says.

Root pulls into the parking lot of the Moonlite All-Nite Diner.

"There are lights in the sky," John says, when they get out of the car.

"They're friendly," Harold says. He puts a hand against John's neck. "Ssh."

The lights above them flicker in a friendly way.

"There is no reason to panic," John says.

The carefully folded tentacles against Harold's back squirm in disagreement.

–

Back at the motel, Root wants to go swimming, and leaves John and Harold alone in the room. Harold looks out of the window. The blue flickering light of the pool reminds Harold of the computer screens in the subway station, that pale blue light on Root's face. Impossible to hide the tentacles on Harold's back from her, obviously, with the way she was constantly challenging, watching him: but after a while it was also a sweet, serene peace, to sit next to her with his deepest secret out in the open. She had discovered it accidentally, almost casually, given him a friendly pat on the back and felt them stir beneath the fabric of his suit.

Harold had revealed them carefully, like removing a bandage from a wound, but she had smiled and said: “Can I touch?”

“Of course,” he had said, dizzy with relief. “Of course.”

At first, Harold had thought it accidental, the brush of a tentacle against her hand, catching a whisp of her hair. But the more he concentrated on his work, the more they strayed to her, like curious little pets. Harold sometimes found one tentacle wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet, or brushing her hair away from her face. Root was as curious about this as anything else: her hands explored the smooth surface, circled the suckers, and Harold had to suppress a shudder in response. He assumed they sensed her fascination with them, and wanted to appease her.

He had entertained these fantasies when he was alone sometimes: Root, sitting in his lap, the tentacles slowly undressing her, combing through her hair. Her low chuckle when two of them undid the clasp of her bra. “I always knew you were special, Harry.” She would say in his fantasy, squirm in his lap, lean in close.

Sometimes, if Harold felt especially tempted to indulge, he would imagine even further: how the tentacles would slide up her thighs, under her skirt. How she would lean in to kiss him, bite his jaw: “Keep going, Harry, you don't want to make a girl wait.” Her breathless gasp when he would slide the tongue-tip of a tentacle between her legs, let her rub herself against the slick tip, her head thrown back.

Harold never made a move, never dared to disturb that careful equilibrium between them. Still, he understood what his subconscious was trying to tell him: that he was aching to be touched, in places other than his skin, aching to be seen as he really was.

–

Root swims laps in the pool. Next to it, there is a woman with sunglasses, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She has an earpiece in that she occasionally touches. She seems to write down how many laps Root makes, how fast she goes each time.

“Would you hand me a towel, sweetheart?” Root asks.

The woman does, carefully, immediately retreating into the shadows. Her face looks familiar. Something tugs at the chambers of Root's heart, but she can't will herself to remember. When she looks up again, there is nobody by the pool. She gets out of the water and dries herself off. She finds a notebook, but every single page is empty.

Root lies down on one of the plastic deck chairs, curls up to sleep under the desert sky.

–

John comes out of the bathroom along with a gust of hot, humid air. He has a towel slung around his hips, his chest bare as he is padding barefoot to his side of the bed. Harold lies on the bed in his suit and shoes, staring at the ceiling.

“You can use the bathroom, if you like,” John says. He rubs at his wet hair with a towel, then shakes his head like a dog. “There is something off about the shower, though.”

“It only has two settings,” Harold says absently. “Scalding and winter pond.”

John folds the towel neatly. “Scalding is pretty nice,” he says.

Harold does not move. Maybe if he keeps very still, he can make himself disappear. The briefcase has dimmed its little green light, dozing on the coffee table. From the corner of his eye, Harold can see John putting on boxer shorts and a t shirt, then climbing into bed. Then again, the things you see from the corner of your eye are not really happening.

Harold takes measured breaths. His skin feels hot under the fabric of his suit, chafed and sweaty. He considers showering and then putting on his suit again. The bathroom seems very far away.

The bed has two separate mattresses that are pushed together in the middle, a border like two foreign countries meeting.

“Do you need something?” John asks, softly.

He does not ask why Harold is lying in bed in a three-piece suit, or why Harold won't turn his back to the shadows in the corner.

“No, thank you,” Harold says.

This is ridiculous. He feels overheated, feverish. He has brought no change of clothes, he can't keep wearing a suit that he has slept in. Harold takes a determined breath and sits up, then he makes his way to the bathroom.

–

Harold steps into the shower and turns on the water. He ignores his body for as long as he reasonably can, then he reaches around and loosens the tentacles that are neatly folded against the small of his back. He sometimes forgets that he has them: they don't take up too much space, and he has found a way to contain them that makes it feel like there is nothing more resting against his back than a soft pillow. Harold reaches for the small bottle of shower gel that the motel offered, along with the customary shower cap, a bar of soap, a fire extinguisher, a small knife and a bottle of holy water.

Harold stretches his tentacles. There are four of them, in a dark aubergine color and a lighter pink on the inside, where the suckers are located. They end in small, sensitive tips that are shaped like tongues. It feels good to stretch them, let them take up room. Harold is so used to hiding his true shape that letting his appendages move freely in the space of the shower stall feels incredibly good.

Harold had waited for a good moment to tell John about the tentacles, but as it turns out there is not really a good moment to say “You see, there are four tentacles attached to the small of my back, folded beneath my suits.”, ever. When they had been intimate, Harold had remained fully dressed, his cock jutting out obscenely through his zipper while he was fucking John, the tentacles moving restlessly against Harold's skin under his suit, itching to touch. Harold had knelt down to suck John off and the tentacles had shivered against his skin like whispers of air.

Harold turns off the tap, wraps a towel around himself and steps out of the shower. He looks at the message on the mirror that says In case of emergency, break glass.

They say that there is no time like the present.

–

Harold had expected surprise, disbelief, possibly even disgust. When he lies down with John and removes the towel, turning onto his stomach, he is prepared for rejection, for John to recoil and move away from him. What happens is this:

“John, there are a few things that you do not know about me,” Harold says. His tentacles undulate gently behind him. Two are still stretching out, reclaiming space, while the other two touch the sheets curiously.

John watches for a moment, then he holds out his hand. One of the tentacles winds itself around his wrist like jewelry, without Harold even consciously deciding to have it move.

“This must all be very confusing to you,” Harold says.

John makes a low humming sound when the suckers tug at the skin on the inside of his arm. He uses his other hand to gently pet the smooth surface of one tentacle, and Harold sighs at the sensation, his eyes going heavy-lidded.

John, bolder now, leans down to press a kiss against the smooth texture. The tentacle winds itself all the way up his forearm. A second tentacle loops itself around his hand, tongue-tip licking at the inside of his palm.

Harold makes a shocked, wet noise against the sheets. He is very aroused, the tentacles drinking in the taste of John's skin, the tactile pleasure of hard muscle and solid bones beneath them.

“I don't mind being a little bit confused,” John says, smirking.

The tentacles are long enough to wrap around Harold's body when he lies on his back, so John undresses quickly and straddles him. The tentacles welcome him, pull him closer to Harold's body, and John comes willingly, leaning down to nuzzle Harold's throat.

“You are,” Harold says, stroking John's soft hair, “You are a wonder,” he finally manages.

John moves against him, rhythmically, yearning. “Touch me,” he says.

Harold lets his hands slide over John's back, rests his palms against John's hipbones.

“No,” John says, smiling. He reaches out for one of the tentacles, lets it run over his hand and arm like a benevolent snake. “Don't use your hands,” he says, blushing a little, and Harold can't breathe.

He lets the tentacles slide down John's spine, the tips feather-light and gentle, traveling down all the way to John's buttocks, the back of his thighs. Then he lowers them down to cover John's backside, the suckers tugging at the skin, pulling and releasing, and John sighs, spreading his legs. Harold slides the tip of one tentacle between his buttocks, lets the tip get wet and slick, and John makes a needy noise and pushes back against the pressure, craving more.

“Are you sure?” Harold asks. Fear sits like a stone deep in his chest.

John presses his nose into the hollow of Harold's throat, his hands holding on to Harold's arms. “I want you,” John tells the room, the darkness, the briefcase and the bed. “I want all of you.”

Oh, how could Harold resist: he slides the slick tip of a tentacle into John and John whimpers beautifully, his mouth falling open against Harold's skin.

“Oh,” John says, “Oh, that is – Yes.”

Harold slides a second tentacle into the space between them, wraps it loosely around John's cock and balls, and John's breath stutters in his chest, his hands tightening on Harold's arms.

Harold pushes in further, the delicate surface of the tentacle feeling the subtle texture of the tissue inside. It expands and contracts, the tip licking at the swell of John's prostate. John shudders on top of him, more sobbing than breathing, pushing back against the pressure.

“Is this good? Does this feel good to you?” Harold asks, reaching for the reassuring comfort of John's voice.

John's chuckle is cut short by a groan. His hips thrust against Harold, the rhythm getting more desperate. “Yes,” John says, kissing every bit of skin he can reach: Harold's throat and his chest; then he is nosing into the sparse chest hair and whimpering softly. “So good, Harold, oh. It feels so good.”

Harold lets a second tentacle slide in and John takes it easily, spreading himself open. His cock is leaking, slick and very, very hard, and Harold curls the tentacle more firmly around it, lets John push into it like a fist.

“Oh god, I'm going to come, oh,” John says, and Harold lets the tip of the tentacle inside John curl up and push down against the most sensitive spot.

John comes suddenly, explosively, his voice breaking on the sounds of pleasure he makes. He spills over the smooth surface of the tentacles, and oh, Harold can almost taste him, smell him, sliding a free tentacle around John's waist to keep him close, hold him steady.

Coming is almost an afterthought for Harold, but he feels the tingle of pleasure all the way into the tips of the tentacles, a hot wave of pleasure. John is collapsed on top of him, panting, his body spent. Harold starts to withdraw the tentacles still resting inside of John, but John makes a small whine of protest and pushes back with his hips, trying to keep Harold close.

“Not yet,” he says. He sounds drugged, his voice sluggish and heavy. “Wanna feel you inside me.”

Harold shudders. “Yes,” he says, overcome, and holds John as close as he can.

The darkness does not say a thing.

–

John wakes up from the feeling of a hand stroking his neck, moving down between his shoulder blades in a careful caress. He turns to his side, humming softly, when he sees Harold, firmly asleep on his pillow. Oh.

The tentacle rises into the air and moves back a little, uncertain.

“It's fine,” John rasps, his voice sleep-thick. “Go on.”

The tentacle slides up his throat this time, and a second one wraps itself around John's arm in what John assumes is a form of snuggling. He pets them: their surface is remarkably smooth and warms under his touch like velvet. He presses his mouth against a tentacle close to him and Harold sighs and stirs in his sleep. John smiles. He takes the tip of a tentacle into his mouth, sucking at the tongue-like structure on the end. The tentacle on his arm tightens around him, pulling him closer. Harold makes a noise in his sleep.

John takes the tentacle deeper into his mouth, licks at the suckers on the underside. Harold starts rutting against the sheets, sighing deeply. Then his eyes open and he blinks in confusion, trying to focus his eyes on John. John meets his gaze and looks back innocently. Then he strokes the tentacle with his hand and takes it even deeper into his mouth.

Harold moans, helplessly, turning onto his back. He is hard, his flushed cock nestled among his pubic hair, and his eyes are glassy when he looks at John. “Oh yes, please,” he says, his eyes huge and naked without his glasses.

John keeps going. It's like a blow job except the texture on his tongue feels different, and the tentacle is moving under his hand and in his mouth, like it is trying to rub itself against John's tongue. Harold lets his head fall back, breathing heavily, only to look up again seconds later like he doesn't want to miss a second of John fellating a thick, purple tentacle with a blissed-out expression on his face.

“John,” Harold says, his cock twitching in appreciation, his throat and chest flushed a lovely red.

Then John relaxes his throat and takes the tentacle down as far as he can manage, and Harold gasps and comes, the other tentacles curling up and relaxing again before settling in next to him. John lets the tentacle slip out of his mouth and lies down on top of Harold, rubs his own aching erection against his leg. “Good morning,” he whispers against Harold's ear.

“Indeed,” Harold says, laughing in disbelief, and then he closes a hand around John, strokes him firmly, and John closes his eyes and lets himself surrender to pleasure, a few tentacles curling tenderly against his side.  
–

The next day, they step out into the desert morning: Harold filled with a sweet, inexplicable warmth, John standing closely by his side, Root carrying a styrofoam cup. The pool is drained, a huge, empty basin. The hotel manager tells them that it has not been used for years.

There is a cloud in the sky that changes colors: bright pink to lime green to midnight blue. Harold's tentacles stir against his skin. John places a hand over the small of his back, rubbing over the fabric with his thumb, and they settle down. Maybe not so inexplicable, then.

“Did someone catch the traffic report?” John asks.

“It just said 'We're all going to die anyway, what's the point' and then ten minutes of laundry detergent advertising,” Root says.

Harold shrugs. “Maybe we should just start driving.”

Root turns to look at him. “Do you have a plan?”

Harold absently strokes the briefcase he is carrying. It makes no buzzing sound. “No,” he says. “But if you don't know where you are going, at least it is impossible to get lost.”

Root tosses him the keys. A quick, purple tentacle slides out from under Harold's vest and catches it in mid-air before dutifully handing it over to Harold.

John considers Root's unimpressed face. “You knew about this,” he says, making a face.

“Is there a radioactive glow cloud in the sky, John?” Root asks, wiggling her eyebrows and getting into the car. She looks back at the pool and thinks that she sees a figure there, a woman with sunglasses and a ponytail. Then she blinks and she is gone.

John gets into the passenger seat and Root sits down in the back. Harold starts the engine and drives them up to the main road, out of town. A tentacle folds itself into John's lap, and John lets it wrap itself around his hand, pets its silky surface.

“Is that a Dog Park?” Root asks, confused, but Harold just pushes the gas pedal down harder.

 

– fin

**Author's Note:**

> Harold is, in the last scene, of course paraphrasing Lewis Carroll: "If you don't know where you are going, any road will get you there." I think Cecil would approve.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mind of Their Own (fanart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288306) by [chargetransfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chargetransfer/pseuds/chargetransfer)




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